


Beautiful Nebula; I Helped Build That One

by Azirashell_Ascendant



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comfort, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, Eventual Happy Ending, Fanon, Gift Giving, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by Fanart, Loving Marriage, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Painting, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Self-Acceptance, Stars, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 01:24:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20939993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azirashell_Ascendant/pseuds/Azirashell_Ascendant
Summary: I wonder whether the stars are set alight in Heaven so that one day each one of us may find his own again.Antoine de Saint-Exupery.





	Beautiful Nebula; I Helped Build That One

**Author's Note:**

> Post-canon based on the pre-canon of a favourite fanon that is not necessarily my headcanon. But it's pretty.

Crowley felt the shift as soon as he walked through the door. But it wasn't until he'd taken off his sunglasses that he saw the easel. Simple tripod style; perfectly serviceable, if a bit plain. On it was a perfectly stretched canvas, roughly 18x24 inches; an ideal size for carrying in the French easel resting against the wall. The only remarkable thing about it was the fabric itself; an unblemished, void-like white that was perfect too...and too perfect, almost supernaturally so. The small card resting on the paint tray was remarkable as well. _ Not _perfect, Crowley thought, not knowing quite what he thought; reality sort of slid around it. The only thing that he could be sure of was that it was there. He reached for it.

October 23, 2024

You'll want it to be perfect; _ I _ want it to be your best. With Love

He may have crumbled to the ground, or maybe he sank. Crowley still sits blankly: not looking at the note, or out of the window, or even inwardly. Months go by. The answering machine runs out of tape, then runs out again. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

There's a small card on the desk and a hollowed out Crowley on the floor. A terrified Aziraphale is quick to examine both. He does not touch Crowley's note; but, for a moment, rests his fingers close. Just once, he bends slightly to breathe it in.

After that, Aziraphale checks in nightly; seeing to it that Crowley is not disturbed. Soon, it's the evening routine. The shop is closed, takeaway is collected, and Aziraphale heads home. He tends to increasingly spoiled plants, then curls up on the Very Expensive Sofa to read. (Over time, the space grows steadily more Aziraphale-like. Slippers, a shawl. The sofa itself is trying very, very hard to become a Chesterfield).

It may have been years; it might have become decades except, one day, Aziraphale touches the canvas. In passing, he runs an idle hand along the top, gently resettling it on the easel. He stops in mid-step.The Crowley statue hasn't moved, except that he is now looking into Aziraphale's eyes. Aziraphale staggers a bit, an instinctive apology on his lips. 

_"Now it's perfect."_

Lesley delivers the paints the next day. The note quietly loses itself.

Crowley is now looking at stars. He takes Aziraphale to Land's End, the Orkneys, South Downs. He points out colours, lights, favourites. His own work. Vacations to New Zealand. Tierra del Fuego. Vancouver Island (where Aziraphale is spoiled with tea at The Empress; delighted to be restored to her heyday that afternoon). Places where the lights go out. Aziraphale excitedly discovers the deserts of the American Southwest.

It's also Aziraphale who lights a fire under him to get started. Crowley dances tersely, then frantically, then sadly. But when he finally does say it, his sunglasses stay on the nightstand.

_"If I start, eventually I'll finish it."_

Aziraphale went silent for a moment, softly drumming his fingers along Crowley's thigh. He settled back onto Crowley's shoulder, but looked up to cock an eyebrow at him.

"By your logic, you lose either way. Or, rather, they are lost to you. I don't see how it is any better to keep something beyond your reach than to come to the end of it. They're yours, dearest, they were a gift, and they are meant to be used." 

"It's not very good manners," Aziraphale added gently, "And it sounds a bit cruel to yourself, like some odd torture. Do you really want to spend the rest of eternity this close to something you've convinced yourself that you can never have?"

Food for thought. With the tips of his fingers, Crowley traces a line from Aziraphale's face to his collar bone. He taps it gently and Aziraphale moves to let him up.

He's gone for a decade. The plants begin to cycle through generations. It's raining when he comes home, holding a luxurious-looking camp stool-like affair. 

"It's for you," Crowley says casually, "when you want to join me."

Crowley spends much of his preliminary sketch work drawing with his eyes closed. He walks through three dimensional spaces touching and shaping the air.

"Did you sculpt before?"

"A bit. Couldn't do that now, of course. Not from _ here_."

"Oh." said Aziraphale, feeling his way carefully.

"Varied perspectives are always interesting," Crowley shrugs, but he can't hide how reverently he touches the waiting palette. 

Life returns to normal. Debates, romantic dinners, temptations and blessings; tormenting ducks. Every once in a while, they head off to Hampstead Heath. Crowley doesn't usually paint at night. He aims for sunrises and sunsets; by twilight they've moved on. When Crowley does venture out alone, he's gone for weeks, always back with amusing stories and a suitcase full of gifts. They do not discuss finishing it. There always seems to be more canvas to fill.

**Author's Note:**

> My biggest love is still planets and stars. If I hadn't become an artist, I'd be an astronomer because I love it so much.  
_**Peter Max**_


End file.
